


The Sound of Bells

by Aequoria



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Attempted Rape, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Romance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoria/pseuds/Aequoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the new era of the Alternian Empire, the ninth solar sweep of the Good Queen's reign, Karkat Vantas acquires a human slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Been trying to post this for about a day or so, but AO3 keeps eating it.
> 
> Originally posted on the kink meme, unprompted. I'm sorry I haven't updated Glasgow Love Theme in a while, though I swear I'm working on the next chapter! xD
> 
> Anyway, I hope this interests you. :) It's a bit of an experiment with prose styles and world-building, inspired mostly by the language of The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje and random bits of troll culture that seemed cool xD Please tell me what you think!
> 
> Oh, and in case you didn't read the tags! **Warnings: Slavery, planetary invasion, weird imagery and general objectification. There will definitely be no non-con between Karkat and John in this fic, but I haven't plotted the entire story out yet so I can't say non-con might not appear eventually.**
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you like it! :D

There is something to be said about the Dark Carnival on this lonely blue planet. The old Empress is dead and gone and Feferi in her place is known as the Good Queen, the Lifebringer, the conquerer of two universes. There is less death- but there is no less destruction. Each conquered planet is held precious, its inhabitants caged like the cuttlefish in Her respiteblock, cherished and helpless and hopelessly ornamental.

That is how you find yourself as a General on the planet Earth, leader of Her army of threshecutioners to cut down those who would refuse to be caged; for those who refuse life do not deserve to live it. She has ensured your continued existence despite your mutant blood, and you have gifted Her with loyalty in gratitude. But She is more benevolent than you can even comprehend, placing your moirail as High Subjugglator of this strange planet and letting you live together for sweeps on this unknown land, working together to make Earth a worthy addition to the Alternian empire.

It is on a stretch of beach by a cold sea that Gamzee takes you to see his creation. You have not yet been to the Carnival, though he has been asking you for at least a sweep by now. You have been too preoccupied, too busy with your hands buried elbow-deep in the bright red blood of the treasonous, but four sweeps since the invasion, the rebellions have slowed down to barely a trickle. Tomorrow you will hunt the remainder of the rebels down, though you know it is futile. Humans seem to be a particularly stubborn race.

The Lifebringer has ordered no unnecessary culling, but the rocky cliffs that rise high above you beside the sea are smeared with dark, rusting reds and browns, a monochrome mural decorating the way to the Carnival. Gamzee takes the innocent of the human race and hides them in the safety of his creation, crafting exotic wonders and delights for your army and for all. Those who resist are swiftly and brutally silenced and painted on the walls to guide lonely trolls to this makeshift paradise.

Ocean-salt and the music of slaves are carried to you on the winds, and you lick your lips in anticipation.

The Carnival rises before you, a massive tent of white and black and indigo, edges flappping where it has been cut to let in the sea breezes. You can hear the cheers and joyful shouts of hundreds of trolls from inside, and your bloodpusher beats with pride. This is the work of your moirail, of _Gamzee Makara_. You are proud to call him yours, and through the corner of your eye you see him swell with happiness.

The inside of the tent is dark and cavernous, lit only by the tongues of fire from the ring of torches around the perimeter. As you walk you hear a _whoosh_ from beside you and a flare of orange- you turn and find a human performer blowing fire from his mouth, and you gasp in wonder. The air is filled with gleeful shrieks and laughter and music, and an undertone of creaking groans that you recognise to be Gamzee's pride and joy- the stark-white, enormous Ferris wheel of bleached human and troll bone alike, lovingly cut and nailed together to make a masterpiece of interspecies unity. It moves sluggishly, as if the air itself has been so saturated with ecstasy that it has turned into sopor, thick and syrupy.

Around you, slave-hawkers sell their variety of wares, from the Empress' favourite beaded jewelry to fruits dipped in and dripping with melted sugar. The scent of sweetness drifts through the air, tantalising and heavy. There are wonders that you have never seen in your life: fire-breathers, dancers, graceful ones that jump from a height and make it look like flying, humans coaxing huge beasts to do fantastic tricks in a manner you thought only Tavros to be capable of. 

But there is nothing so beautiful, so compelling to the eye as the boy who dances in the wind. A slip of skin shown through the shifting blue silk, moving like water through the air, pale and pure and sweet as breastmilk from a human mother. The clothes, sewn to enchant; the body, covered to be desired. The tinkling bells of gold on his ankles are like a siren's call, a mischievous seadweller luring the foolish in to feast upon the drowning flesh.

And you _are_ drowning, drowning in the sights and sounds and tastes and smells of this dark festival, but all you want is to touch this slave-boy. Run your claws across the softness of his skin, spill his mutant candy-red blood across an expanse of pink-white and grey, slide against all his darkest, most secret places and oh how the wind would _howl_ as you took its child for yourself.

The Carnivalmaster looks at you, all lazy eyes and indulgent smiles. Do you see anything you like?

Yes.

Which one?

The windy boy.

Then he is yours.

When he smiles at you, you find it in yourself to smile back.

 

 

 

You are waiting in a side room, separated by heavy fabrics from the chaos of the main tent. In here the sounds are muffled and the fires are dimmed; only the sweet smell of sugar still hangs in the air, thick with sweat and ecstasy, and you let yourself relax into the indigo velvet cushions that Gamzee has so thoughtfully provided for you. 

Silvery tinkling alerts you to his presence, and he slips in through the small gap in the cloth to stand in front of you shyly. In the dimmed firelight, shifting shadows are painted across his milky skin, patterns and secrets unbroken by the cloth that drapes across him. The darkness only calls attention to what lies beneath, and you find your breath quickening.

He must be recently acquired, because he does not move when you signal for him to remove his clothing. He stands there, wringing his hands behind his back and gazing at his feet that he has crossed together like a chastised wriggler. You sigh. You do not possess the patience to deal with this.

'Strip,' you command him. 'I want to see you.'

It takes a while for him to react, but with shaking fingers he reaches for the curved golden clasp on his shoulder and undoes it, and the silk falls easily off his body like sheets of water. It pools at his feet, rippling around the gold bells around his ankles that chain him to a life of servitude to those higher than he. They mark him as a dancer, a pleasure-slave, a toy for the thousands of soldiers, executioners and legislacerators that populate and mould this still-young addition to the Empire. No doubt Gamzee would have fetched a good price for him from an interested highblood, but being his moirail has given you more privileges than ought. 

You start at these bells, dragging your eyes lazily upwards to inspect your new possession. His calves are smooth and slim, though muscled from his work, expanding from the knee to become creamy-white thighs. His hipbones are sharp- he must not have been eating well- and frame the strange human genitalia that has so confused you since you arrived on this planet, though you have never had a chance to study them in detail. It sweeps up into a slender waist, curving sharply out into his lowest rib, and the strange useless nubs on his chest. His arms and shoulders, like the rest of him, look strong but uncared for, his skin sunken so that his clavicles and the tiny bones of his wrists jut out from the rest of him. His head is bowed, but you have seen him outside- messy dark hair, a small chin, a strong nose. Pink lips the colour of Imperial blood, wide-set eyes that are more blue than Vriska's. More blue than the gentle daysky of this lonely place.

Everything is alien but not, and your skin crawls with the wonderful wrongness of his form and the blood like yours that you know runs underneath the pale skin. It is despicable.

You have never desired anyone more.

'Do you know what is to become of you?' He shakes his head. 'Your master has given you to me as a gift, something I intend to take full advantage of. You will be expected to serve me to the best of your stinking, useless human ability, and cater to my every whim. I also expect you to wear my sign and colour when we are out in public. The entire Alternian Empire is probably aware that Gamzee is my moirail, so if you're an embarrassment to me, you're an embarrassment to the High Subjugglator of your puny little planet, and trust me, you _do not_ want that to happen. Am I being clear?'

He nods, but refuses to answer. A coil of fury begins to curl in your belly, and you revel in the sensation. 'I asked you a question, you fucking bulgelicker. Do you understand?' you snap, baring your teeth. Not snarling; a shark's smile, but he never needs to know that.

And finally, he speaks.

'I don't dance for you.' The words are slow and clear, frightened but determined, and though he never raises his gaze you can hear the defiance in his voice. 'I dance for myself, to save my life, but I will never ever dance for you.'

He lifts his head and you look into his eyes, bluer than the daysky of this lonely place. Wet and shimmering and glinting with hatred. 'Do you understand that?'

And god, yes. Yes you do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, but yeah I'm working on the next bits. xD Hope you like this installment, and thank you so so much for all the kudos and comments last time! :)

Whenever a new planet is added to the Empire, the Empress' closest friends are allowed to ask for certain things to keep for themselves. Terezi asks for laws, books and symbols and recorded cases that she can study, so she can laugh at their idea of justice and crush it under the grinding wheel of her own. Eridan asks for their technology and history, huge metal machines or tiny nanoparticles or pages upon pages of ancestry and wars. Gamzee asks for nothing but the people and everything they can give him, so he can turn it into miracles to share with the whole Empire. You have not changed much from when you were six sweeps old; you have always asked for their art, their literature, their romances- anything to prove that you were not wasting your time on a soulless husk of a species.

Humans do not understand the concept of kismesissitude. They have no inkling of the exhilaration, the wild, feral joy that comes only from pure loathing. Quadrants do not exist for them; they limit themselves with rules and restrictions and arbitrary fears, and they hide from deviance like a wriggler hides from the searing light of day.

You know you cannot fill this quadrant, any quadrant, with your human slave. He would not understand, no one would understand. You have burned their cities and cut down their freedom fighters, but you are not so much of an invader that you would rape an ignorant slave-boy to satisfy your lust. So you watch him.

He seems almost in love with his body, careless in his physicality and grace. He moves like the dancer he is, sweeping from place to place like the simple act of relocating himself is a game to him. Where your movements are economical, his are expressive; like every push and pull of muscle is defiance, and he relishes the freedom while he can. He must have been a new slave, because he is unbroken, and it is a thrill to know you have acquired him at a point when he is still so close to the core of his soul. He is real and unfragmented and strong, and though his head is bowed in servitude and the sound of bells follows him wherever he goes, he lives comfortably in the knowledge that he is his own person.

You allow him this little freedom. Gamzee calls it charming, says the Good Queen would approve. It is Terezi who understands, blind eyes staring at you with a sharpness that is almost physically cutting, who shakes her head and says you are a madman. Kismeses must be equal. There is no room for terror, for ownership, for dominance. A rivalry is only real if your opponent can fight back. To hurt and hate is romance; to oppress is the act of a torturer.

It is foolish, but at least this way you can perhaps pretend.

 

 

It is the first night of the Dark Season in Alternia, a festival celebrated throughout the Empire, and the Empress and Imperial Prince have unexpectedly decided to come and visit Earth. Gamzee has taken them to see his Carnival in the planet's strangely gentle twilight, and at midnight you are expected to attend the royal ball to celebrate their presence. The thought of all this ceremony makes you faintly ill, but you can only shrug it off with a grimace.

Your slave dresses you in your ceremonial uniform and armour. He is silent, but you can hear the whisper of his breath as he stands behind you and the soft chimes as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Your respiteblock is quiet but for those sounds as you allow yourself to be waited upon- first the black dress shirt and fitted trousers, the dyed bone buttons gleaming. The dark cloth fits snugly around your body- Kanaya's work, of course- and the fire-red threads subtly woven into the fabric catch the light with every movement. Then the armour: full-body but for your skull, carapace and exoskeleton carved with your symbol and artfully singed with intricate signs- again, the designs of your jadeblooded friend. It is built from your enemies and the skin of culled lusii. You wonder whether somewhere in the two universes, there is a troll wearing yours.

There is a softness to his skin as he smooths his hands over the lines of your grey body, a texture that has slowly become familiar to you over the past few weeks. His fingertips are callused and worn smooth; but his palms, when he brushes them over you to drape another layer of cloth across you, still have that strange soft-roughness that only human hands have, with their tiny, whirling, mysterious lines. You lift your arms obediently to allow him to slide the sleeves of the dark, embroidered military jacket on, immediately noting how it restricts your movement, and shifting yourself to accommodate it. He stands in front of you now, to slip the heavy hooded cloak the colour of your blood across your shoulders. He is perhaps a hand's-breadth smaller than you, and the freshly-bathed scent of your human wafts into your sensitive nose as he bends his head to concentrate on the complicated clasp at the base of your throat.

He wears your symbol on an iron collar around his neck. You have not branded him. You should have, but you decided to refrain from that practice; there was something strangely alluring about his unbroken skin, curves and lines of alien milk-white unmarred by violence. There are multicoloured bruises where you have gripped him too hard, like messy inkblots on the scattered notebooks you found in one of the rebel camps you'd razed (it had once been a school, you'd found out later). They are stark on his paleness, like his skin is being reborn around the dark dots of your fingertips. It urges you to bite and suck, to claw and bleed, but you've made a promise to yourself. He will only bear your scars when he has accepted you as his kismesis. (Which is to say, never.)

The Palace is built on another, rockier beach, half-submerged in the freezing ocean waters. When you emerge from your vehicle after making the journey from your house, you close your eyes against the cold spray, remembering Gamzee and his miracle by the sea. When you open your eyes, your slave is standing in front of you, huddled up and shivering violently in his sheer blue silks. You snarl at him to hurry up, and he shuffles over as you stride to the entrance of the Palace. There is a loud queue of trolls and their servants from all over the hemospectrum waiting to be announced, and the harried doorman directs you to the very back.

'Stick close,' you mutter to your slave.

He flicks his eyes up to meet yours. 'Yes, sir.'

There are a handful of names that you recognise, but most of these trolls are unfamiliar to you. The higher-ups in society, regardless of their place in the hemospectrum, are immediately obvious by the designs of their clothing; those lower down have just put on their cleanest set of clothes. There was a time when you were the same way. Though trolls do not care about fashion, there is a lingering fascination with personal adornment that only intensifies as they grow more powerful. It is a strange adaptation, at once a threat and advantage. Before the days of the Good Queen, to draw attention to yourself could be to command respect, but could just as easily invite death.

The murmur of hundreds of Alternian whisperings grows louder the closer you get to the front of the queue, and you can feel the minute shifting of the air as your slave instinctively curls in on himself at the unfamiliar language. You will have to teach him Alternian someday.

Finally, you reach the front of the queue, and the dim lighting from the royal ballroom below you intensifies. The servant troll takes a breath before announcing your name. 'Lord Karkat Vantas, General of the Ninth Battalion, Eleventh Advisor to the Empress, and Commander of the Alternian Armed Forces for Earth, Planetary Acquisition 64231.'

You grit your teeth, take your hands off the handles of your unsheathed sickles, and descend the stairs into the ballroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday John!!! :D  
> Well, I hope you guys like this next chapter, because finally some of the plot is going to appear :'D Thank you guys SO much for all the kudos and comments!

There is a hush that descends upon the ballroom as you make your way purposefully down the sweeping granite staircase. There are no whispers, but you can imagine their thoughts like hammer-blows to your skull; _mutant-blood,_ they think, _disgraceful freak monster he should be culled how dare he bring a naked blade how dare he exist how dare he-_

Your titles ensure that no one can cull you without the Empress' express permission, and your actions have won a world more beautiful than any other in the Empire save the homeplanet itself. But bravery and loyalty pale in the face of bloodstatus, and for all Her goodness even She cannot erase centuries of prejudice in a mere nine sweeps (but that is a treasonous thought, and you desist immediately). The cloak that identifies you separates you like a wall, hangs heavy on your shoulders. You feel their eyes upon you like accusations sharper than any blade that has tried to pierce the carapace of your armour. You imagine how they would do it; they would snap your neck, you think, clean and quick and bloodless, so they would never have to see your bright red filth defile the granite floor. Your steps remain even.

You kneel before the dual thrones, forehead to the ground and baring the back of your neck like an offering; behind you, your slave stumbles to do the same. You are silent and still, as is the custom; when She laughs and commands you to rise, you stand and look Her in the eye.

She is smiling and beautiful as ever, gills fanning out to push back Her long, wild hair. Her fingers are entwined with that of the Emperor Consort, the Imperial Prince Eridan Ampora. Their pity story is known throughout the Empire; they had danced around each other, drawing close and pushing away countless times before they had finally become matesprits. Older now and grown out of their childish puns and quarrels, they sit in their thrones, regal and contented as they look over what they have created. The firelight catches in the multicoloured beads around Her neck and woven into Her hair, giving Her a shimmering glow. The Emperor Consort gazes imperiously at you, only a tiny, hidden smile tugging at the corner of his black mouth to show he is pleased to see an old friend. They are almost godlike in their powerful tranquility, and you can almost forget the seething masses behind you as you hide in the safety of their favour.

'We have you to thank for all of this, Lord Vantas,' Feferi says, beaming. She is speaking in English, always one to believe in trying new things. 'If not for your efforts, we would never be standing here right now!'

At Her words you feel your servant shift and stiffen, still bent in his kneeling position. You allow a smirk to play upon your face. 'I live to serve the Empire.'

'And I see you've already sampled some of the perks of the job.' Eridan nods at your slave, baring his teeth in a sly grin.

The watching crowd barks out its laughter. Feferi giggles and disentangles Her fingers from Eridan's to bat at his arm. 'It's no less than he deserves. What do you call this human of yours? Is it male or female? I'm afraid I'm not quite familiar with this species yet.'

It occurs to you that you have not named him. There has never been a need to; he is so far below you that he is easily identifiable in the shelter of the hive you share with Gamzee, but in this Palace filled with trolls and slaves alike he would be easy to misplace. 'This is a male human. I haven't yet given him a name, my Empress, but it would be a great honour to me if You were to do so.'

She looks elated. 'That's a wonderful idea! But I might call him something silly like Selkie or Kelp; why don't we ask him what the humans call him?' She turns Her gaze directly on your slave, and in the silence you can hear the blood rushing through your ears; not many have the privilege to be looked upon by royalty. 'Do you have a name, slave?'

'Yes, Empress,' he replies, muffled against the floor.

'Well, what is it then?' Eridan asks impatiently. 'We haven't got all night.'

Your boy sucks in a breath and chokes out the words like a half-remembered prayer. 'I am John Egbert.'

Sometimes in life there are shifts in perception, little quiet moments when something slides into place. It is like your mind is working in slow motion, or perhaps it is time that has stopped to allow your thoughts to move at lightning speed. There is a sudden clarity of thought and sense, and everything ordinary around you suddenly becomes sharp and fresh like you experience them anew. You roll the name around in your mind, feeling the way it slips into your associations of this boy naturally. It is a strange name, a human name, but he is strange and human and there is simply no other way for him to be than this. You cannot just call him slave or boy because that is not who he is; he is John Egbert and there is much more to him than you know, than has even occurred to you to want to know.

'I think it's a good name, my Empress,' you say.

'Is it?' She frowns. 'It does sound a little strange, but I suppose it's better than Selkie. Well, stand up, John Egbert.' He scrambles to comply. 'Sorry to cut our greeting short, Ka- Lord Vantas, rather, but there are lots of people behind you!'

You bow once more and move swiftly to the side, your boy- your _John_ \- following you. The crowd parts unconsciously, as if the filth in your blood is catching, and it feels like it is only you and him left in the chaos of the room.

You swivel around and study him intently; he jolts back in surprise but soon settles, glaring back at you defiantly. It's like he has been transformed; or was he always this way, and is it you that has been changed? You know every inch of his body like you would know your dearest enemy, with every weakness and strength filed in your mind. But there is a set to his jaw that you have never noticed, an awkward imperfection in the way he stands still despite his usually graceful movements. What are his histories? you wonder, tracing your eyes across the expanse of his skin, lingering on the fading bruises that fit your hands perfectly. What are his scars? He is an alien mystery wrapped up in blue silk, and you feel like you have only now begun to unravel him.

'So,' you begin, uncertain for the first time in sweeps. 'Your name is John.'

It could be your imagination, but you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch. His wide blue eyes lock on yours without shame or humility, and for the first time you wonder whether he had been a highblood before he became a slave. 'Yes, my Lord.'

 

 

Your moirail is always notoriously late to important events. You are more than halfway through the midnight meal when the announcer calls out 'Prince Gamzee Makara, Grand Highblood, Second Advisor to the Empress, and High Subjugglator of Earth, Planetary Acquisition 64231.' The royalty are so familiar with his habits that they don't hesitate to start without him, but he is still an indigo prince and the room is filled with the scrapes and squeaks of hundreds of chairs being shoved out of the way as you rise to your feet at his arrival.

The Empress and Imperial Prince remain seated, as is the custom, but Gamzee laughs in the face of tradition and bounds up to the High Table irreverently. 'Apologies for being late, Empress, but I was out in the Carnival, making sure things were all going on just fine, when I looked at the clock and I was just like, mother _fuck._ '

The Empress laughs, and Eridan rolls his eyes in exasperation. There are things Gamzee does that would deserve a culling, but Feferi has never wanted the blood of Her friends on Her hands. (Other trolls are not so lucky, but everyone agrees that those who incur even the Good Queen's wrath must have had death wishes.)

Gamzee finds you quickly at the same table and slaps you on the shoulder, forcing you to sit. He grins at you fondly, patting your cheek as you splutter in protest. 'Get your chill on, my main motherfucker. You don't stand up for me, yeah?'

He takes his seat beside you, and only then do the others sit down. Behind you, John is waiting, listening for a command. You ignore him for now, reaching over to adjust Gamzee's sloppily-donned uniform. 

'It's great that you came, Prince Gamzee!' Feferi smiles brilliantly in your direction. She is still talking in that strange English language, and though most trolls have lived here for some sweeps and know plenty of it, Her personal servants look more than a little lost. 'I was about to announce our new plan.'

'As you all know, we have seen remarkable developments in our technology in recent years,' Eridan continues, taking his cue from Her and using the human tongue as well. 'Our resource distribution system spans both universes of the Empire and passenger ships are getting faster and much more numerous. But in the further areas of the Empire, such as this one, we found that there isn't much in the way of economic growth.'

'There is still only a relatively small settlement of trolls here, only a few hundred perhaps, and that's the case in all Universe Beta planets and even some on the outskirts of Alpha. We think a political intervention might be needed to stimulate growth here, and we've decided to start our investment with Earth!'

'We see the potential for a large financial district to grow in the Beta universe, and what's been shown to us tonight just confirmed our plans.' Eridan grins proudly. 'We want to turn Earth into a tourist planet to attract traffic into the area. The conditions are perfect, we already have Prince Gamzee's Carnival as a starting point, and if we manage it properly, the slave trade should be excellent. We're in talks with Trans-Universal Starways to sponsor this project.'

There is loud applause and murmurs of agreement from all over the tables, but you clear your throat and bang your fist against the wood for silence. It works, to an extent; the room looks at you quietly, waiting anxiously for you to be culled so one of them can seize your position.

Instead, the Empress smiles. 'Yes, Lord Vantas?'

'With all due respect, my Empress,' you begin, leaning back against your chair. 'The development plans cannot proceed until all areas of Earth have been cleared. Most of the continents are completely under Alternian rule, but there are some places our Forces have not yet reached, and even in largely troll-inhabited spaces there are occasional small rebellions. Humans are a ridiculously resilient species.'

'Then deal with it,' Eridan says, waving a hand dismissively.

'Eridan, he can't kill them all. We wouldn't have a slave market otherwise.' Feferi frowns, deep in thought. 'To be honest, I think the rebels could be part of the attraction. It is nice to let off some steam on a holiday, after all!'

'What are you suggesting, my Empress?' You signal for John to refill your cup, and he steps obediently forward with a jug of imported grubjuice.

'Maybe we could do that thing that Lady Leijon has set up on Selicha. Game reserves, I believe she calls them. Hunting grounds.' She beams, Her face lighting up as Her eyes curve into perfect crescents from mirth. 'We need to manage it carefully so we don't run out of humans, but isn't that a nice way to deal with the rebels? We don't outright cull them, but we give them a fighting chance and provide entertainment for ourselves as well!'

John's fingers suddenly slip on the handle of the pitcher and you reach forward reflexively to catch it, grabbing his wrist with your other hand and digging in hard enough to bruise. 'Incompetent little _bulgesucker_ ,' you hiss so only he can hear. 'Learn to do your fucking job.'

His arm trembles in your grip, though his fingers have gone slack. You search his eyes, wide and fearful for the first time, like an insect finally realising that it is caught in the spider's web. He tugs at his wrist and you let him go, revelling in the horrified gaze directed at you. It feels like a breath of fresh air, something from a world beyond this stuffy room with its accusations and trickery. Horror turns to anger, then to hatred, and then to that rush of wild exhilaration that can only come from that strange, certain fury; he cannot be your kismesis, but it fills you with delight to feel that gaze upon your skin like a lover's touch. 

How far can I go, you wonder. How far could I take him without letting him break?

'That is an excellent idea, Empress!' Beside you, a blue-blood general raises his glass. 'And it's well in keeping with the ethical reforms! Some people in the Forces are just too... hasty in their dealings.'

'I agree,' you say, ignoring the obvious insult. You can feel his gaze cut through you like a blade, and it is a struggle to keep the lines of your face unfurrowed as you turn back to the Empress. Lord Xariel commands the Tenth Battalion, and he has seen you as his rival since you ascended in the army's ranks. He is a disgusting creature, you think, a flatterer and a flirt, lies as thick and rich as butter spilling from his oily mouth. There is a certain anger in the way he looks at you, a certain slickness in every disparaging remark that makes you think he wants you for himself; but the disgust in the pit of your stomach is platonic in every way. Even the Imperial Prince has been more successful in romancing you. 'We need to come up with a strategy to pen the rebel humans into the desired areas, but it shouldn't be too difficult. The innocents are a particularly good source of information we can use.'

You resolve to tell Terezi about this. She is now stationed on one of the older Beta acquisitions, a nameless, arid desert planet only labelled PA64229. The Empire has designated it a prison planet for criminal trolls and those that had been on the culling row before the ascension of the Lifebringer. She misses the wonders of Earth, but craves the sense of righteous justice she has been denied; she would adore the hunting grounds more than any other in the Empire.

'Slaves too,' Eridan says, tapping his cheek and casting a contemplative glance towards John. 'Useless as they may be most of the time, it can't be denied that they're good for this.'

'Useless? They ain't useless, my motherfucking Imperial brother. You just gotta give them a chance to show their true motherfucking talents.' Gamzee grins and drapes an arm across you, and its weight is calming.

Xariel sneers, and you know his gaze has settled on you again. 'That would depend on their masters. Some don't seem to know how to train their slaves to perform simple tasks.'

You've seen Gamzee carry out his duties as High Subjugglator with relish, seen him dripping in colour as he painted his claws in rainbow blood, know every wild line and serrated tooth of his snarling, furious face. But what is perhaps the most terrifying thing about your moirail is the way he can hide it. He smiles pleasantly, painted eyes curving into half-open crescents, and you wonder if the general will die tonight for his insult, outside the Palace halls. 'Sometimes a motherfucker just ain't born for the simple things, Lord Xariel. More than half the room's human slaves were bought from my Carnival, and I know every one, from when I caught them to when I sold them. Lord Vantas' slave was a motherfucking dancer, you know?'

Feferi claps Her hands once and makes a high, childish sound of delight. 'Was he really? Would you make him dance for us, Lord Vantas?'

The thought comes to you like a stab in your flesh, tearing and rending the walls of the ceremony and fake politeness that you have conditioned yourself to build like it is a physical thing. _He does not dance for you._

Shit. You curse in your mind as you try to erase that thought. There could be dozens of mind-readers within the nobility, and while Feferi would doubtless wave it away as part of your personality, you can't afford to tarnish your reputation more. It would be so easy for them to incite distrust among the royalty and your Forces.

John is still behind you, clutching the jug of grubjuice with hands white with pressure. You look at him, and allow a smile to tug at your mouth at the sight of his seething defiance. 'Well, you heard that, didn't you? Dance.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was super hard to write and AAH AS A WARNING. **THIS WILL HAVE ATTEMPTED NONCON AND MORE VIOLENCE** ahaha. Yep. I actually tried my hand at it, good grief.
> 
> Thank you all to those who commented, you guys seriously make my day. I love you 8D

For a moment it almost looks as though John is going to refuse. The idea is laughable; every eye in the room is upon him now, and he fidgets under the weight of the stares. You half-hope he decides to bolt, because the thought of chasing him down and dragging him back, kicking and screaming, is enough to make you giddy with excitement.

"There... There is no music, my Lord," he says quietly, and you have to marvel at the sheer _nerve_ of your human. "I don't know how to dance without music."

"Oh, you're absolutely right! What sort of music do you dance to, John Egbert? I'm sure we have something here that would suit you," Feferi exclaims, and beside Her, the Imperial Prince looks distinctly unimpressed. "Don't be shy, tell us!"

You can tell John is thrown by Her response. "I, uh... flute and pipe music mostly, um, Empress."

Beside you Xariel lets out a snort of derision at John's fumbling, intimidated reply, and Gamzee smiles almost proudly. 

"Excellent, we have just the thing." Eridan nods to the left corner of the ballroom, where a small band that had travelled with the royal fleet from Alternia is gathered, waiting for the midnight meal to end. At his command, two green-blooded pipers put their instruments to their mouths and begin to play. 

"Well, what are you waiting for?" you growl at John, who is standing frozen to the spot. "You have your music, now entertain us."

You can see the exact moment when his jaw tightens and his eyes turn cold, and his words flow back into your mind, unforgotten and vivid as the day they were spoken. _I will never ever dance for you._

He hands the jug of grubjuice to another slave and visibly steels himself, walking to the centre of the room with his head held high. His stance has that strange pride of a dying soldier, a wounded beast; defiance lines his every action even as he moves to do your will.

The tune is lively and happy, one you recognise from the old sweeps when you still lived on Alternia. You watch him for the short moment that he stands stock-still; he is bathed in all that you are, all that you fight for, with your symbol on his collar and the waves of your music washing over him like the shoreline. There is a sparking, slow-growing black lust welling in the pit of your stomach that you try to ignore. It will not do to disgrace yourself with a lack of control in front of the Empress.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, seeming to absorb the music into himself. Then he begins to dance.

He moves like lightning, one second standing still and the next twirling in place like a tornado. He moves with his soul, with all the passion and zeal that you can always see lurking beneath his slave's skin, uncaring and graceful. He moves like a man who has nothing left to lose, whose only blessing is his movement, and with every spin and leap and sway the bells of his servitude ring and add a playful tinkle to the merriment of the pipes. It is seductive in its innocence and simple charm- and as he spins faster, leaps higher, his blue silks fly wild around him, making the elusive flashes of soft white skin seem like a dream.

His eyes are still closed, blocking out the room, and his mouth is smiling like he has forgotten the circumstances of his elation. Dear god, how you want to tear into that smile with your teeth, kiss him hard and make him realise exactly where he is and who he dances in front of- not for, _never_ for- 

Xariel lets out a low whistle. "That is some skill, I must admit," he says in Alternian, his eyes fixated on John. "I see why you keep him around."

"Most shows are best enjoyed when the audience is quiet." You frown at him, frustrated by the interruption. The sway of John's hips is distracting, calling attention to the wonderful alien-ness of his form, but you cannot focus.

"I don't suppose someone like you would be generous enough to share with, ah, interested parties." The look on his face is unmistakeable, because you are sure it is only a reflection of your own.

"Fuck off," you hiss angrily, your rage getting the better of your practiced decorum. "My slave isn't some two-caegar concupiscent whore from the communal slumstems. Do you think my moirail runs some sort of seedy fucking _brothel?"_

"Lord Vantas, that was incredibly rude. One might think you pitied the little slave." He casts you a sly, sideways grin, and you give him a disgusted face. You don't bother to respond; that would only encourage him.

John dances for what seems to you like hours, stopping to catch his breath only to start again as another nobleman requests a piece of music. He is entrancing, captivating his audience with every graceful movement even as he pants harder and sweat beads down every inch of his skin. He is bright red and visibly feeling the strain in his muscles as he struggles to block everything out, to remain smiling, to keep dancing only for himself. The sight of him being taken down, piece by piece, until he has to concede defeat, is intoxicating.

You wish you were the only one to make him suffer this way.

Finally it is the Empress Herself who becomes bored and orders the musicians to stop. "That's enough," She says cheerily, casting a beatific smile at John. "We wouldn't want him to be too exhausted to carry out his duties to Lord Vantas! That was very nice, John, I do hope you can dance for us again someday."

John looks like he is about to crumple to the floor, but stands stiffly and bows his head. "Thank you, Empress," he answers, his words punctuated by gasping pants.

You would order him to continue serving you just to feel his anger, but that would be cruel even for a kismesis. You have made a promise to yourself not to abuse him for your own black pleasure, him who cannot deny you anything, so you wave him away when he comes to stand by you again. "Go away," you tell him. "I don't care where you stay, just come back to the ballroom when you're rested. You're useless to everyone like this."

The look he shoots you is surprised, but he takes the chance to abscond before you can say anything more. 

Sighing, you settle yourself further into the velvet seat, a uniform comfort for all the guests regardless of station. It is another mark of the change in times. Some guests talk animatedly about the dancing slave boy, but you are drawn into a discussion about possible tactics for the Forces to use for the implementation of the hunting grounds. Eridan is unsurprisingly knowledgeable about this, but the landdweller Forces are too different from seadweller, and you have to politely dismiss many of his suggestions.

"Of course, the hunting grounds must be small enough to manage, but large enough to give a proper challenge. I would suggest one of the mountainous regions, but that might make the rebels too difficult to control."

"The Forces can handle it," you are quick to reassure Eridan.

"I'm sure." He looks around, as if to check for eavesdroppers, and lowers his voice and leans forward. "Sollux sends his regards."

You raise an eyebrow. "I'm sure that's not all he said."

Eridan's expression twists into the pleased, disgusted face he makes at every mention of his kismesis. "He said to tell you hello, you technologically-backward mutant fucktard, and also to get online sometime before the next millenium because he misses how pathetic you are."

"Tell him I have better things to do than humour his sorry fucking arse," you say, though you mentally promise to check up on him. Eridan seems to know this, in that wordless, inexplicable way he has always known you, and smiles. It is not an obvious fact even among your closest friends that you and the Imperial Prince have these understandings, and that you have had them since you were both barely pupated and struggling with your romances and lives. You think that perhaps, if not for Gamzee, you would have consented to be his moirail.

Moirail to the Imperial Prince. That would have been a much-coveted position, for those who didn't know Eridan. You can already imagine the Empress' laughter.

Some of the generals assigned to nearby Beta planets decide to join your discussion, offering suggestions and advice. You take them with a smile; some of these trolls knew you when you were training to be a threshecutioner, and treat you with respect. Others are not so convinced of your prowess, and direct all their words to Eridan. It does not escape your notice that Xariel has disappeared from the table, but it is no business of yours what he does.

But the secret, furtive familiarity Eridan displays with you, and the occasional brush of Gamzee's fingertips across your back soon lose their soothing effectiveness. You ask to be excused for some fresh air. You have always hated these gatherings, though you have not attended many; you can only keep up the pretense of civility for so long. Gamzee gives you a lazy smile, entwines your fingers with his in a brief, strong squeeze, and lets you go.

You never actually leave the Palace. The habits you learnt as a young troll are too deeply ingrained in you. _Do not go outside unless absolutely necessary. Minimise face-to-face contact with others. Do not blush, do not cry. Do not bleed._ You stroll slowly along the corridor that runs parallel to the ballroom, ears assaulted by sound. On your right, the murmurs and clicks of hundreds of trolls, whisperings in Alternian and English alike. On your left, the crash of waves against rock. You can still hear the voices, muffled through stone, when you round a corner and catch sight of them.

Xariel is pressing your slave into the rough stone wall, forcing him up to stand on his toes. John's eyes are screwed shut with terror and the prick of sharp claws into the flesh of his neck uncovered by the collar are drawing beads of blood, red blood, your blood. Both his hands are grasping desperately onto Xariel's wrist in an effort to dislodge him, but the general slips a wandering hand between the blue silks and you cannot suppress your rage.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you are doing?" you snarl, grabbing the back of his cloak and ripping Xariel away from John, who drops to the ground, coughing. "Get the fuck away from him, you miserable festering sack of greasy _shit_ , I should have you culled for this-"

"Don't you talk to me that way, you mutated lowblood," he growls, and takes a step forward with his fist raised, only to fall prostrate before you.

John is still lying on the ground, leg outstretched from when he tripped the general. His eyes whip up to meet your own surprised stare. You catch a flash of nameless emotion before Xariel is dragging him to his feet, strong hand digging hard into a bruise you have left on his arm, drawing trickles of bright red, and John gives a pained cry and throws his fist out to punch Xariel in the face.

There is a satisfying crunch of bone and John's knuckles come back stained dark blue. Xariel grunts and more blood flows from his broken nose, and he throws John against the wall once more, leaving him to crumple to the floor and gasp for breath.

"Good gods, Vantas, what have you been teaching your boy? This is blatant disrespect of the ruling species!" He rounds on you, cheeks bright with anger and humiliation.

"I taught him nothing," you hiss. "But it looks like he has the right ideas anyway."

His eyes narrow. "What is he to you? He's a simple slave, Vantas. A simple, idiot human slave who can dance."

 _Mine,_ is the thought that strikes like lightning in your head. _Mine to unravel, to explore, to hurt and bleed and trust. My intended kismesis._ But you cannot say that, so instead you growl, "I just don't make it a point to go around raping those weaker than me. Fucking bulgelicker."

In an instant his sword is drawn from its scabbard and you duck from the swipe, but not before it cuts a gash in your cheek. The gush of blood is hot and disgustingly red and you close your hands around the hilts of your sickles and bring them up to parry his next thrust. The metal clangs loudly from the impact.

He is at a disadvantage. He uses a double-handed, giant sword, impressive in battle but ultimately unwieldy in a cramped corridor. You have two sickles and your more agile build as your strengths and you dodge around most of his attacks, striking in his most vulnerable places. He is wounded in his side down to the top edge of his hip, where your sickle bit in and tore the flesh apart. You are bleeding from your thigh and shoulder.

The cut in your shoulder is deep and you can barely hold on to your sickle, so you throw it away and adjust your stance to accommodate your single weapon. But you have lost an advantage, and it is not long before you are pinned against the stone wall, his sword at your throat, your one sickle trembling to keep his blade from slicing open your neck.

"I don't want to have to kill you, Vantas," he says.

"Fuck off," you spit at him. "There's no place in _this_ Empire for filth like you."

He snarls with rage and it's all you can do to keep his sword steady, but you can feel a line of agony forming along your throat-

There is a quiet honk, barely heard between your harsh breathing and the click of your carapace armours, but Xariel springs away from you as if he had been burnt.

"P-Prince Gamzee," he stammers out, eyes wild. The sound of your altercation must have alerted the entire ballroom, because you can hear the scraping of chairs and pounding of feet heading your way. Gamzee must have run ahead.

He takes one long, lazy look at the scene. You are slumped against the wall, bleeding and lightheaded. Xariel is still trembling with anger, both hands clenching the handle of his sword that is edged with bright red. And John...

John is curled up on the floor, features twisted with both fear and shaking rage as he gazes alternately at Gamzee and Xariel. His silk coverings are soaked dark with blood, both his own and his aggressor's. His neck and upper arm are still sluggishly oozing mutant-red.

Gamzee's eyes lock on you, and a slow smile spreads across this face. "Shoosh, my little best friend. I'll take care of this."

Xariel whimpers.

You hurry over to John, who looks up at you uncertainly. "Run," you hiss. "Get up and run. You don't want to see this."

He scrambles to his feet and you take his arm and sprint as fast as you can from the two highbloods, making for the side exit that would lead you to the rocks and stinging, salty ocean air.

You are not fast enough to escape the sound of the culling.

 

 

It is only when you have arrived at your hive, locked safely inside, that he speaks.

"What did you say to him?" he asks you, looking you directly in the eye. "Why did you do that?"

With a start, you realise that your whole exchange had been in Alternian. John had not understood a word of what you had said to each other, and you wonder if the emotion you feel is relief or dizziness from blood loss.

"I told him you were worth more than any of us could imagine," you say.

He looks at you, quiet and thoughtful, and nods.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are killing me. Here, have a little bit before people start thinking I've actually died. :( I'm just so unbelievably tired.
> 
> Feedback would be fantastic, if you have any to give! :D
> 
> **Warning for mentions of abuse**

When Gamzee returns, clean and smelling faintly of antiseptic, he tells you that the Empress does not hold you responsible for the events at the ball, but requests- _orders_ \- that next time, you keep a level head. You heave a sigh of relief and let him change the dressings on your wounds.

In the days after the ball, John seems to regard you somewhat differently. He is less subdued, less quiet; he hums under his breath and sighs heavily whenever Gamzee decides to bake. Even his movements are less tense, and often you can catch him staring outside the large window in the recreationblock if the drapes are up. But there is an energy to him, a low vibration that you can almost sense thrumming under his skin, and when he looks at you his expressions are almost vicious. If you are honest with yourself, the sight of those narrowed blue eyes and fearless scowls send dark thrills down your spine, though you know you still can never have him in the all the many ways you want.

Sometimes his work is substandard. You are an independent troll when it comes to the bare essentials of life, stripped of pity and hate and concentrating only on survival, so you do your fair share of work around the hive to make sure you never lose the skills you learnt in pupation. But lately you have become absorbed in your work, drawing up strategies to herd the rebels into the proposed hunting grounds and filling out new weapons order forms to be sent to Zahhak Industries, that you force John to cover your slack. It is not always completed to your satisfaction, but no matter how many times you snarl at him to get his act together, he remains incompetent.

You're sitting at the table reading about the events at Zahhak Industries' latest general shareholders' meeting, with paperwork spread out around you in an incomprehensible mess. Lord Zahhak and Lady Serket, the two major shareholders in the company, had thrown writing instruments at each other over a decision to purchase Trans-Universal Starways. A part of the wall of the corporate building was destroyed. The story is made more amusing by the fact that you know them both personally, and despite being the executive officer, Equius will defer to Vriska if she keeps insisting against the takeover. There won't be a transport monopoly in the Empire for sweeps.

You entertain yourself with thoughts of what Aradia thinks about her kismesis being so submissive to her lifelong platonic hate while you try to concentrate on working. The romantic entanglements of the Empire's higher-ups are infinitely more interesting to you than working out whether any new weapons will be needed for the hunting grounds operation. Still, you manage to fill out an order for eighty upgraded plasma crossbows before John enters with a steaming mug of the coffee you ordered him to make.

His eyes flit across the table. There are files on known rebel locations written in Alternian, maps of rugged terrain and diagrams of troop formations and weapons. He does not understand much, but he knows enough that he promptly tips the mug over and pours the coffee out to soak the papers.

"Fucking _shit!_ " you yell, standing up and shoving away from the table before the scalding liquid can drip onto you. "What sort of gangrenous, shit-slick _waste chute_ has your thinkpan turned into? That was _hours_ of work!"

You grip him by the shoulders, digging into old bruises, but though he gasps he locks his furious eyes on you.

"What are you going to do about it, then?" he challenges you. "Are you going to punish me? Torture me? Are you going to have me killed by your boyfriend?"

You snarl at him, but don't say a word. What are you going to do? You cannot hurt him like you would a kismesis, not while he remains your slave. But you cannot leave him as he is, because he will only torment you again and again until you reach your breaking point.

"You don't even know," he says incredulously, and laughs. It is a bitter, wicked sound, and it feels wrong coming from his mouth. "You really don't know. You're some sort of big-shot general but you can't figure out what to do with me. What am I to you, _sir?_ Am I some sort of weird pet, like a really stupid dog or something? Is that what you meant when you said I was worth more than anyone could imagine? Do you say that to all the species you take over? And here I thought we had something special, I guess you don't hate me more than the other girls after all."

"Shut up! Of course I fucking hate you!" you shout, releasing him and tugging at your hair in frustration. He has no idea what he's talking about. He doesn't even know what kismesissitude is; you can hear the sarcasm coating every word and the coy, ignorant, _oblivious_ things he says make you want to scream. "I hate how deliberately useless you are at the simplest of tasks. I hate the fact that you're the most expressive little bulge-eater in both universes but I can't even fucking tell what makes you tick. I hate your humming and I hate the way you move like nothing can touch you. I don't even know what the fuck is going on with those teeth, but they're disgusting and you should put them away. And I _loathe_ how fucking clumsy you are when you're not dancing like a lunatic." 

His face looks like it's caught somewhere between rage and laughter, and you want to reach out and smooth away those lines with your claws and rake him bloody until he screams himself hoarse and lunges for you with smiling, red-stained teeth. 

"But," you begin, quieter. You can feel your cheeks starting to heat with blood, but you remind yourself that everything is fine. He's human. He won't understand the forwardness of your statements, how you're breaking every rule of etiquette and caliginous courtship, so it doesn't matter what you say to him now. He would never truly understand. "Being a slave has nothing to do with that. You are John Egbert and I'd fucking despise you in every alternate universe you could show me. I hate you for the things that make you a person, and I respect you all the more for that."

He seems to be struck speechless, mouth opening and closing like he doesn't know what to say. For a moment you feel a wild panic that perhaps he _did_ understand you, perhaps he had recognised the black solicitation for what it was, but then he starts to speak. "I don't get it," he says slowly. "If you hate me so much, why did you save me from that troll?"

"He wanted a quick, easy fuck with someone who couldn't refuse," you answer bluntly, ignoring his flinch at your words. "He didn't respect you, he wanted to dominate you. Who you were and what you wanted never came into the equation. You were there and he could overpower you and that was all he saw. No one deserves that sort of treatment."

His mouth twists up in a wry little grin and he makes a sound of condescending amusement. "I like that. How you can talk about respect and keep me as a slave. You're the beacon of virtue and truth, it's you. The Alternian Empire thanks you for your service, Lord Vantas, we never could have subjugated this planet of living, thinking, dreaming people without you."

He turns his back to you and you can see the tension in his muscles and his hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides. "I really, really hate you too, sir."

The bells' chimes follow him as he walks away.

 

 

You try to forget that day. It is reasonable to think that your slave was simply unsettled. It is true that he flinched at most unexpected movements after the Darkfall celebration, that he shuddered and watched warily when another blueblood soldier paid a visit to the hive to deliver some files. And though his reactions had faded over time, you can imagine the sharp words being simply an instinct to gain some semblance of control. Perhaps he had never been in a position where he could so easily be dominated by someone stronger than him. After all, Gamzee did offer his complete protection for the slaves while they remained at the Carnival.

You do not like to think about the way he looked, nervous and defiant, as he stripped himself bare in that warm, sugar-scented room where you first called him your own. You had every right. The circumstances were completely different.

He is humming again as he works, on his knees and scrubbing at the floor. There is a shallow basin of soapy water beside him. The suds are browning as he washes away the crusting mud that your visitors tracked in from early in the evening. You lean against the table, watching him silently, waiting for anything that would give you an insight as to how his strange human mind works. The muscles of his back begin to tense as he slowly becomes aware of your presence. The humming stops.

"Someone should take a picture of us," he says, tone conversational. Bordering on pleasant. "I had a friend who was really into photography. Totally a hipster too, though he'd never admit it. He'd love this shot. The honourable master watching the lowly slave cleaning up after the pride of the Alternian Forces."

"Get back to work," you snap. "You're polluting the air with your moronic babble."

"Yeah, I guess slaves don't have freedom of speech either. I wonder how Dave's doing. They probably had to gag him to make him actually shut up. Or are trolls more of the cutting out your tongue type? Maybe they sewed his mouth shut. Or wait, does that not fit in with your ethical stance?"

You move with a soldier's fluid speed, grasping his collar and dragging him upwards. His breath chokes as his body is forced to move with you, staggering up and dropping the soaked cloth to the floor. "We don't do that sort of thing, but for you I might make an exception." Your growl is low and threatening, but he does not yield. "You used to be a good, quiet little thing. Why did you think it would be a fucking _grand idea_ to start mouthing off at your master?"

"Because I finally pulled my head out of my ass and realised I really don't have to put up with your shit!" he cries, ripping himself from your grip. "I'm _not_ a slave! Not yours, not anybody's. I don't deserve to be treated this way."

"There are masters much worse than me," you snarl, pressing even closer until he is forced against the wall. "There are trolls who wouldn't hesitate to treat you like you were less than scum. Days of hard labour without sustenance. Gagging you and stripping you and tying you to the front of the hive to be an amusement to the passing highbloods. Letting you burn and dehydrate in the sun as you are forced to work on a garden that will only be trampled later on. Keeping you chained inside their respiteblock to never see the light of day you humans are so fond of. Threatening to cull you, and then doing things to you that would have you begging for death."

Your breaths are mingling, harsh pants filling the space between your mouths with moist heat. "Am I supposed to thank you?" he asks, eyes narrowed in anger.

"I could be that way too," you whisper, showing teeth. "I could show you pain like you've never known. And I want to- to hold you down until that fucking inexplicable smile is wiped off and you realise that there's nothing _fucking funny._ I could tear into you with my teeth and claws and show you how worthless that pasty paper skin is and make you scream and beg for me to stop. And you wouldn't stop fighting, oh no. You'd struggle and hiss and bite because you're too fucking stupid to know when to give up and I'd _let_ you fight because I'd be the only one who could make you suffer so perfectly."

Your pulse is racing and your eyes are half-lidded with black _want_ , and he licks his lips and leaves a sheen of wetness that you can't help but need to taste. He tilts his face and you are so close that it seems that your entire vision is tilting with him and he leans even closer, and your lips tingle from the teasing not-there-yet and your bloodpusher is pounding a mantra of yes yes _yes_ -

And he slams his head back against the wall with a cry, eyes wide and frightened. He looks at you for a long second, confused, uncomprehending, and you step back to let him dart away and into the small section of the recreationblock that you partitioned as a makeshift respiteblock for him. He slides the heavy curtain shut behind him and you hear him slump onto the platform that humans sleep on, breathing harsh.

You rest your forehead against the wall, wondering when it was that your life returned to being you fucking up over and over again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO, SO SORRY IT'S TAKEN ME THIS LONG. My excuse is university and also laziness, and for the longest time I didn't really have much inspiration for this fic. I think it's evident in the writing, it's probably taken a bad turn :') Anyway I am sO SORRY AGAIN OMG and I really hope you enjoy this chapter and that it makes up for the year-long wait!!

When you next visit the Carnival, it is with John accompanying you. You'd been so surprised by the way he'd virtually pleaded to be brought with you that you'd agreed immediately. 

He looks lost in the Carnival. His eyes flicker with recognition at each circus act, each breathtaking scene, each shout of a hawker selling wares. Somewhere above the noise a flute cries thinly and his arms twitch as if to dance. A conditioned response. He tugs at your collar around his neck, self-conscious in the throng of unbought slaves.

All around him he draws sad smiles, and you, guarded glances. There is a strange camaraderie here, such as can only be found among slaves. You are the master and the oppressor. You are General Lord Karkat Vantas, but your name does not matter here in the dressed-up and glittering dregs of human society. The Empire has raped them of their freedoms and to them every troll is held accountable.

It was a mistake to believe you would find the Dark Carnival as welcoming as before.

Still, it is not long before Gamzee finds you and draws you into a conversation, and you can see his pride in every movement he makes. He is a prince and trolls bow to him as he passes in the streets, but he takes no joy in that status. It is here that he truly feels at home, here on the barren beach by the cold, spraying sea, with his music and his slaves and the Carnival's sweet sticky air. He talks of things that you would have dismissed in your pupation as meaningless concerns, but here they are relevant, even urgent.

In the middle of a discussion on the production methods of the 'wicked elixir' that is sold in the hawker-stalls, you catch sight of John ducking into a smaller tent, of heavy purple fabrics and strings of pale beads.

"What is that?" you ask, pointing at the structure.

"Rose's tent," he offers by way of an answer, which does not tell you much of anything at all.

"Who is Rose and what does she do?" you return patiently.

He smiles. "That's one motherfucking good question. Who the fuck is motherfucking Rose Lalonde? I don't know, man, she's one of those motherfucking quiet types, likes to get all up in the other humans' business. Nearly poked my eye out with a pair of needles, but I wasn't in no mood for culling right then so I brought her here. She does the fortune-telling. Not that many motherfuckers want their fortunes told, but's a real motherfucking talent at needlework and mending shit so I let her have her tent."

"The fuck does John want his fortune told for?"

Gamzee shrugs and ruffles your hair lazily. He is the only one you have ever allowed to do that. "Ain't my business what goes on among the slaves, but if I didn't know better, I'd say they were motherfucking palemates. Just like you and me. I ain't feeling no romantic vibes from them, but I guess that's your thing. You wanna go get your listen on while I run this motherfucking miracle-town?"

"What, and just eavesdrop on them?"

He shrugs again. "He's your slave. You can do whatever you motherfucking want." He says it slowly, stretching his vowels as if exploring the way the air escapes from his mouth.

Right, of course. You stand still for a moment as your moirail leaves with one last squeeze of his fingers around your shoulder, allowing the noise and smells of the Carnival to drown you as you ponder your next actions. 

It would be so easy to listen to Gamzee and find out what business John could have with this other human. They could be planning anything, for all that you know of slaves; you have memorised the lines of his shoulders and the edges of his smiles, but John Egbert's mind is not a simple mind, and you are not arrogant enough to think that his secrets will ever be open to you.

_But you own him,_ you think, _and you own his secrets, and every dark shadowy corner of plot and rebellion. You own his anger and his fear and pain and hate, all his blackest-burning hate-_

No.

But your mind, traitorous, hisses _yes._

You swear, loudly, and some of the nearby slaves give you startled looks before returning to their duties. No matter how you look at it, the situation is fucked up. You cannot bring yourself to so blatantly disrespect someone you think of as a potential kismesis, however ill-advised those feelings are, but to keep permitting him to do what he wants would be admitting your slave is your equal-

Oh.

And there is the core of the problem, really.

Before you can dwell on it further, John appears from inside a tent, accompanied by a young slave with a pale complexion and strikingly violet eyes. This must be the Rose that Gamzee spoke of; she is beautiful in that fragile, alien way that only humans can be, and you feel an irrational stab of dislike as John leans in to embrace her.

You do not approach them but watch from a little distance away. The two are obviously close friends, and though John clearly does not wish to be parted, you can see the Rose girl gently pushing him away. It is when he comes closer to give her an affectionate kiss on her cheek that she catches your eye, and gives you a calm, assessing look that makes you feel like a specimen pinned for examination.

Then, to your surprise, she smiles.

It is the first time a human has ever smiled at you.

When John leaves her and takes his place by your side, he seems troubled in the quiet way of one lost in thought. If you wanted to, you could question him, but you don't think you could bring yourself to do that. Not while you know he cannot refuse you without consequences. Maybe you are a poor slave-master, but the very thought is revolting to you.

"Learned some things about trolls," he says suddenly, and yours is not the only head that whips towards him. Other slaves have looked up curiously at this human daring to speak so casually to a troll without being commanded, and you realise that it's just one more demonstration of his power. "Cool stuff, actually. I didn't know about the whole lusus and ascension thing before."

You blink. He sounds almost like he is complimenting you.

It's unsettling.

"I mean, I would probably have loved to learn more about it when I was younger but it was kind of ruined by, you know, being taken as a slave and all."

"If you're looking for lessons on troll culture-" you start to say slowly, wondering where this is going, gaining speed as you gain confidence that this is a good idea. "-as some sort of bullshit entertainment to pass the time in your normally boring, pathetically uneventful life, then you've come to the right troll. You can ask me whatever the fuck you want after you've done your work- impeccably, of course- and I won't even punish you for it."

You can tell from the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes and parting of his lips that you have caught him by surprise; it's so easy to read him, after having lived with all his quirks and mannerisms for so long. 

"Really? You're serious?" He must see something in your face because his eyes widen even further. "Oh wow, you are actually serious."

The truly fascinating thing about John Egbert is that no matter how quickly you can see his reactions, he always manages to surprise you.

"So tell me, do trolls lay eggs or something? I didn't really think you were that different from humans but I heard that you actually are! How do trolls even have sex? You can tell me, we are both boys- you _are_ a boy troll, aren't you?"  
a   
You go redder than you have ever dared in your entire life, and give in to the urge to clutch your hair in your hands and scream in frustration and embarrassment. Slaves around you scatter, and beside you, John lets out a little snort of amusement.

You hate him so much you want to punch the lights out of his eyes and trap him against a wall and kiss him until he bleeds for you.

It's wonderful.

 

 

You did not expect John to be so enthusiastic about his new lessons on troll culture, but it is a refreshing change. For a few moments each day, you can view him as something other than your slave. Before you know it, you are swept up in the excitement as well.

He pores over the notes you write for him in English, learning about the subtle nuances of troll culture and the hemospectrum. One day he asks for something in Alternian; you write down the letters of the alphabet and their English counterparts as clearly and evenly as you can, and when you retire to your recuperacoon you can see his shadow painted stark on the sun-brightened curtains of his makeshift respiteblock, hunched over the pages and tracing the letter forms over and over again.

The next night he shakily pens his name in Alternian and it's embarrassing how at first you hadn't understood, because you had forgotten to teach him which direction to read and write. When he writes your full name and titles properly, your bloodpusher pounds so hard you think it's going to come gushing out of your ears. 

He cannot yet make sense of the words in the books and maps and reports that litter your working table, nor can he understand the clicks and growls of your mother tongue. But he looks at them with fire in his eyes and loathing curling his pale pink lips, and you can see his determination to master it all as clearly as you can see the reasons.

You shouldn't let him do this. You should have let him learn the bare minimum he needs as a slave so that he never poses a threat to your work. This is so fucked up. This is probably treason.

It's fucked up, and you're fucked up, because you are probably only doing this to satisfy your guilt at wanting someone who is completely powerless against you by giving him a way to be on more equal footing. 

But in two weeks when he haltingly clicks "I wish you will go fuck you and die also" in slow, grammatically incorrect but perfectly pronounced Alternian, you know you've done exactly the right thing.

 

 

"When you said you hated me, did you mean that in the kissing way?"

You spit out your coffee and ruin yet another set of important documents that will have to be re-typed and re-signed. "What?" you ask hoarsely, not knowing whether you heard correctly. John is blunt with his thoughts, but this... this is crossing the line.

"I thought you acted really weird for a troll so I asked around, and my friend at the Carnival told me apparently you guys have this thing where you hate someone so much you kiss them and do... other things with them. Do you hate me that way?"

"I- I-" You flounder. Your breath catches in your throat and you think wildly that there has never been a human who has wielded this much power over a troll.

"So, do you hate me that way?"

You are helpless. 

"Yes," you say, cringing as though you are expecting a strike. No, a strike would be merciful. You would take anything- his disgust, his anger- as long as he would not look at you with _fear._

But he takes in this information in that peculiar way of his, silently absorbing and taking a moment to deliberate before passing judgment. 

"It should make me feel sick," he says quietly. "It should make me want to run away from you as fast as I can. But it doesn't, and I don't know why."

A sharp gasp, cold between the edges of your teeth.

What then? you want to ask him, but the words are lost to you in this moment.

But he speaks still, slowly, like the unfurling leaves of the shy-plant after the pressure of touch has left it. "It makes me want to- to do things. Horrible things, and I've never wanted to do anything like it before, but you're awful and I hate what you are and I hate you because you _made me this way_ and I haven't got a clue what to do!"

_"Made you this way?"_ You surge to your feet, furious. "I didn't make you anything! This is all you!"

"Bull _shit_. You bought me, didn't you?" he challenges. "You made me your slave and played all these fucking mind games with me, trying to get me to trust you when I know you're just a lying, disgusting scumbag like all the other trolls-"

"Mind games? Name me _one time_ I mistreated you or- or even laid a fucking hand on you in a sexual manner-"

"Oh, so you don't consider _enslaving me_ mistreatment?" he shouts and you flinch, the little seed of doubt in your mind flaring again. 

Immediately you race to defend yourself, words spilling over into each other, barely coherent. You don't even know what you're talking about, because he has a point, fuck it all to hell. 

This stream of words seems to make him finally snap, and he marches closer to you and grabs you by the front of your shirt, dragging you down to his level and shaking you as hard as he could- not much, since he is a human shaking a troll, but it's enough to shock you into stopping. "God I wish you'd just stop yelling and yammering on about your stupid screwed-up ethics and whatever, everything about you just makes me want to scream!"

"Then go right on ahead you fucking moron, not like it's going to make much difference with all the racket you've been making right now-"

His face contorts and his mouth opens and you squeeze your eyes shut as if preparing yourself for the bloodcurdling shriek you know is going to assault your sensitive ears, but instead you feel yourself pulled roughly forward as he kisses you mid-sentence.

It is fierce and sharp and tastes faintly of metallic blood- whose is it?- and you are wrapping your arm around his waist before you realise what you are doing, your free hand coming up to grab his hair. You jerk him closer to you, hearing the slightest whimper from him as he simultaneously relaxes into your hold and grips you tighter. You feel like all reason and logic have left your brain because all you can think of is the softness of his mouth and the moisture of his breath and all the little details of the kiss that you drink in as if your whole life had been a desert and this was the first flow of water to ever touch your parched throat.

It seems like an age before you pull away for air and by that time you are both panting, exhilarated. He has the very faint beginnings of a grin on his face and it pulls your own lips up, and before you know it the two of you are smiling like you're six sweeps old with a brand new quadrantmate.

"What am I doing?" he whispers.

Truthfully you don't know what you're doing either, only that this feels completely right in every way. _Serendipity_ , you think, and you want to laugh at how, in all your sweeps of waiting and wanting, you had never even imagined something like this.

But you can see now the stirrings of fear in him, and at first you feel the choking hold of panic around your throat, and then you realise it's not you he's afraid of. 

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," you tell him, releasing him from your grip. "I've wanted a kismesis my whole life and you've only even understood the concept for, what, a few weeks? Take however long you need to figure it out or whatever it is you want to do."

He relaxes visibly. "So, we don't need to be kis... kismeses?" He stumbles on the word a little.

You nod. "I'm not going to force you into it." The very thought was repulsive, even though you are disappointed. John would never want you for a kismesis. But then, you had never expected a kiss so black in your entire life- maybe, just maybe, you could be allowed to hope for more.

To your surprise, he greets this with a blinding, lopsided smile.

"Don't worry, I know you won't," he says. "For this, at least, I trust you."

You don't think you have ever been happier in your entire life.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long again! I had a lot of things on my plate this year and I ran out of inspiration but thankfully I regained it and even managed to completely iron out my problems with the rest of the story!! So it should theoretically be easier to write the other chapters now that I have a solid idea of what I'm doing. I hope everyone likes this chapter and again I'm so sorry about the wait!
> 
> Also thank you so much to chimes- yangxiaolongbao on tumblr- for editing grammar and approving my plans for the next chapters (alongside other tumblr users cloacasexual and actual-archaeopteryx)!

Though things between you and John are going slowly but surely, other matters have been moving at a blinding speed.

When you are not with John, you find yourself swept up in meetings, with everyone from your most trusted military officers to the Imperial head of tourism. Nepeta- or the Lady Leijon, as all others refer to her- has been your advisor on this subject. Though not the commander of the planet or even directly affiliated with the Alternian Forces, her hunting grounds on Planetary Acquisition 61097, Selicha, span a little less than half of the land mass and even a small part of the oceans for the exclusive enjoyment of the seadwelling visitors. She is by far the richest and most powerful troll on the planet, raking in royalties from travel agencies and tourist centres, and also collecting rent payments from the various hotels and campsites that had been set up there.

You are starting out with only a small parcel of land by comparison, but with a fairly hostile environment that would add to the enjoyment. There are massive lakes and towering rock mountains and desolate moors dotted all over it, and while temperatures can drop below freezing at night in the dark months, the day remains fairly cool throughout the sweep unlike in the mostly unconquered desert areas of Earth. The grounds are large enough to pose a real challenge to trolls trying to find humans, but small enough to be easily managed by a single platoon. The point is not to crush rebels, after all- the tourists will do enough of that- but to make sure they can't escape. After a few sweeps, the grounds can be handed over to trained park rangers and a new location readied for the attraction's expansion.

When John catches a glimpse of the maps, he informs you that your proposed hunting ground is a place formerly known as Great Britain.

Despite yourself, you are fascinated by the things he tells you in the quiet of dawn, after you finish your lessons. On unmarked maps he scribbles the names of countries and continents that you'd never bothered to learn before the invasion, and when he can, he explains the histories and ideals behind each one. He does not seem to know much about nations other than his own, which he had pointed out as half of the large land mass to the left of your map, but he knows enough to confirm your long-held suspicion that the humans had been too young to have a unified culture. You're starting to wonder whether they even knew off-planet life existed.

"And every country has a different language, and even in one country you can have lots of languages," he explains to you, and you realise why some human books have incomprehensible scribbles on them even though you had learned English early on. "Like where I come from, a lot of people speak both Spanish and English. I can't, but I know a bit of Filipino because my dad is- was-"

He becomes silent, and leaves you to watch the shafts of sunrise that fall on his face and cast half of him in shadow. It makes him look older somehow, sharper, highlighting the bags under his eyes and glinting off the iron collar on his neck. You know you need to retire soon to your respiteblock but you are feeling reckless. You want to hear the rest of the story.

When you make no move to leave, he decides to continue. "My dad had a lot of Filipino co-workers, and sometimes they would come and babysit when I was younger. When I got older, I'd go and babysit their kids, and I learned some of the language on the way. I don't really remember much, though."

"Where is your dad now?" you ask, and you think you could punch yourself in the face as soon as you let the words slip.

"Dead," he says shortly. "Culled for resistance when the trolls came to take us away to the carnival. They stabbed him in front of me."

You wince. Before Feferi came into power, that would have been exactly the fate your own lusus would have suffered, and you had spent countless days as a wriggler unable to sleep, even bathed in sopor as you were, for fear of the culling drones. But unlike you, John had never predicted this. He would never have prepared accordingly, and your bloodpusher aches to think of the shock it would have put him through.

"He was just barely alive when they took me away," John murmurs in a voice so quiet it seems to melt into the air. "They just... picked me up, and I didn't pull away, and- and he was watching me and reaching out and there was blood everywhere and I don't even know how long he lay there before he finally died, I wasn't there, I wasn't even _fucking struggling_ -" He chokes on his words as they grow louder. Clear, alien tears are beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them away and swallows down the rising hysteria.

The silent tension seems to drag on for sweeps before he breaks it again. "It's okay, though. He died a free man. I can be happy just knowing that."

You can't understand the sentiment. You wonder why it is that humans value their freedom so much that they would rather die than submit- is anything worth a life, in the end? Humanity is so young and so transient, you would think they would put more value into the length of their existences. Or is it exactly because they are so young that they simply hadn't yet understood that concept? After all, they have not lived without the burden of centuries upon centuries of the blood-based hierarchy that was your inheritance, that had judged you from the moment you took your first breath. It is incomprehensible to you.

But images float into your head and refuse to leave, of John dancing with his day-sky eyes half-lidded, with the wind in his hair and bells on his ankles. Of hungry-eyed Xariel with his claws twitching with lust, of Gamzee lazily waving a hand to gift his moirail with a slave. Of yourself, voice rough and commanding, making John strip down, fixing your iron collar on his neck. The way he looked away in shame sends a jolt of revulsion through your gut.

You don't understand, but perhaps... you can sympathise. Your hand rests lightly upon his, claws scratching against fragile skin, and when he breathes, you breathe in tandem. There is a significance to this moment that your thinkpan, so used to analysing every fragment of time and stripping it down to bare bones, can't quite comprehend. It screams at you, bangs against the walls of your skull to listen, to _pay attention damnit_ , but the warmth and pulse of John's blood in his veins is distracting. For now, you'll let it slide.

 

 

 

 

"What are we to each other?"

"I don't know."

 

 

 

 

John has a habit of picking the worst times to do anything, so of course it's in the middle of a violent, desperate, and very impromptu kiss that he asks you about your life.

At first you're too caught up in the moment to realise, revelling as you are in the heat of his breath and the cold of the stone wall he's pushed you up against. It's only when he pulls away and the haze clears from your mind that you remember he even said anything at all, and you tell him to repeat it.

"What's your deal, then? Since you know so much about me and I barely know anything about you."

You want to groan, ask him why the fuck he'd interrupt a makeout session for something so trivial, but the longer you think about it the more you realise he's right. You want to kick yourself. How could he ever hate you properly if he doesn't know everything there is to hate?

And there is a lot to hate, after all. It starts from the beginning, with mutant iron in your veins and how it made you everything you are now. Or from the sweeps as a naive wriggler spent watching Her Imperious Condescension and wanting so hard to be part of a system that had no mercy. Or perhaps it doesn't matter to him how you began, but rather how you found yourself miraculously alive and saddled with more responsibility than you had ever dared to desire, all because you had been lucky enough to befriend Feferi Peixes at six. How your first posting as Commander finally won you respect through your own merit, and led to the capture of the home planet he loves.

It catches in your throat and blocks the words from revealing themselves. John looks like he understands.

"It's okay," he says, more gentle than he has any right to be.

Where is his anger? Where is his fire? There are infinite depths to this boy, you know that; you know the lightning and windstorms he hides beneath his pretty alien face. You don't know this softness.

You hate it.

"There's something different about you," he continues, and the way his voice drops as if to coax you into speech scratches at the inside of your skull. "Something not like the rest, but I can't figure it out. I can't figure you out."

"Why do you say that?"

Your vision is filled with the softest blue, and you sense his nose just a hair's breadth from yours. "You're not pretentious, for one. You've got a million titles but you don't lord it over everyone else."

You're so close you can feel his mouth moving as he speaks. "There was a time when I would have."

He laughs and you imagine the breath flowing from him and into your own lungs. "See, that would make sense. Everything about you says that's exactly what you should be doing. It's like you're never really sure what you actually believe in." His expression hardens. "You're the kind of troll who sees nothing wrong with selling innocent people into slavery, but never mistreats his own slave out of some twisted form of respect. You're inconsistent and indecisive and it makes me so. Fucking. Angry."

He is _so close._

You take what you want and so does he.

 

 

 

Later that day, when your walls are burnt away by the sun and your soul is laid bare to the world, you tell him.

 _Lightning and windstorms,_ you think dizzily, as he draws red from your mouth with his kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr is pufflebug and I track that tag as well as the tag "the sound of bells"


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